


The Price of Failure

by Cantatrice18



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Punishment, Sectumsempra, pre-HBP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7837510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cantatrice18/pseuds/Cantatrice18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fiasco at the Ministry leaves the Dark Lord furious with the Malfoys. But with Lucius in prison, he must find a different way to mete out punishment and teach the entire family a lesson.</p><p>Deep within Azkaban, Lucius receives a letter that makes his blood run cold.</p><p>Hundreds of miles away, Severus Snape stumbles upon a gruesome scene and must decide whether to back away, or save a life and and risk the Dark Lord's wrath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lucius

The door shut behind him with an ominous thud, and he could hear the rattle of chains as the enchantments binding the prisoners of Azkaban within its walls sprang to life. There was no light, save for a single strand of moonlight that managed to filter through a grate the size of his palm on the farthest wall. Outside the North Sea raged, waves buffeting the magically strengthened base of the prison tower. He had avoided imprisonment for so long that it was difficult for him to believe his position of power was now forfeit. Barring a miracle, neither the Ministry nor the Dark Lord were likely to trust him again. As much as it galled him to lose his prized Ministry connections, the thought of his master’s displeasure was far worse, and sent chills down his spine. He’d seen how failure was rewarded, and never had any single Death Eater been responsible for as much damage as he himself had been at the Ministry the previous night. 

He walked to the moldy cot that lay in the corner and sat upon it, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. Perhaps he was better off in Azkaban. At least the Dark Lord’s vengeance could not reach him here.

A sudden flash of emerald light illuminated the cell. He sprang to his feet at once, right hand searching in vain for the wand he no longer carried. The light came from a ball of green flame which burned hot and bright in midair. He approached it cautiously, ready to take cover should the thing explode. When he was an arm’s length away the ball gave another flash and disappeared, leaving in its wake a single envelope, its corners singed black. Mechanically, he reached out and caught the envelope before it could fall to the ground. There was no name on it, but the back bore a seal of black wax with the image of a skull and snake pressed into it. With trembling hands, he broke the seal in half and lifted the envelope’s flap. 

At once a piercing, agonized scream filled the room, the voice high, female, and sickeningly familiar. Hardly daring to breathe, he reached into the envelope and drew out a single black-and-white photograph. The sight of it drained his face of color. He dropped the envelope at once, clutching the photo with both hands as he fell to his knees. “Narcissa,” he whispered. “Oh, Narcissa.”


	2. Severus

He paused in the arched doorway of the drawing room, one hand resting on the polished doorframe. The long table was empty, the chair at the far end untouched. Frowning, he drew his wand from his pocket and muttered “Revelico Magi”. At once he became aware of everything magical around him, from the tapestries enchanted to move, to the tiny glimmers of magic that kept the diamond windowpanes from frosting over in winter. He closed his eyes and expanded the spell’s footprint until it covered the entire house. There, in a small upstairs sitting room at the end of the family residence wing: a blaze of magical fire so strong it could come from only one source. He frowned, instincts buzzing with suspicion and distrust. Why would the Dark Lord choose to meet him there, of all places?

Still holding his wand at the ready, he scaled the great, emerald-carpeted staircase that led to the upper level, took a left at the top, and strode past portrait galleries and a pair of small libraries without a second glance. Turning another corner, he found himself in a narrower hallway, no less grand than the first, with black silk banners affixed to the wood-paneled walls. Each banner bore the Malfoy family crest, and the doors lining the halls held silver nameplates at eye level. Most of the nameplates were blank, magically empty since the days when dozens of Malfoys would gather in their ancestral house to hunt down muggles on All Hallows Eve. The Malfoys were notorious for opposing the ban on muggle hunting that went into effect in 1799. The sight of so many empty rooms drove home just how far the Malfoys had fallen since their heyday. They were less a pureblood dynasty, now, and more a final gasp of a dying lineage. His eyes flicked past the door bearing the name “Draco” in bold lettering, pausing on the larger door beside it that bore no nameplate at all. Something behind that door tugged at his senses, a bit of magic flickering in and out like an unsteady candle flame in a draft. The sun-bright aura cast by the Dark Lord’s power had all but erased this little speck of light from his perception, yet curiosity drew him to it. Raising his wand higher, he turned the door handle and stepped inside.

The smell hit him first, the sharp iron tang of spilled blood. Splashes of red stood out like paint against the white wall, dark maroon stains on the oriental rug completing the scene of carnage. In the center of the enormous four-post bed lay Narcissa Malfoy, her hands clasped over her stomach, her eyes closed. He circled the rug, avoiding the bloodstains as best he could, until he stood over her. She was deathly pale against the grey silk of the coverlet, but bore no visible sign of injury. Still, the scent of blood was much stronger by the bed. Reaching out, he rested two fingers against her neck to feel for a pulse. If there was a heartbeat there, it was far too weak for him to feel, yet the spell which alerted him to the Dark Lord’s presence two rooms over told him that the woman before him still lived. As he drew back his hand from her neck, he saw that the tips of his fingers were now stained red. Leaning closer, he could see that Narcissa’s long blonde hair held streaks of red as well. Gingerly, afraid of what he might find, he grasped her by the shoulders and shifted her body until she lay on one side. 

Slashes like sword cuts crisscrossed her back, the wounds white and bloodless. The fabric of her emerald green gown was in tatters, and where she had lain the bed was nearly black with blood. He shuddered, recognizing the curse at once, and drew himself onto the bed until he could hold her across his lap, one arm wrapped around her waist to steady her. Raising his wand, he began to chant, his voice rising and falling like a song as his wand tip traced the wounds. The tune was as familiar to him as his own breath. How long had he spent, alone in the Slytherin dormitory, trying and failing to construct a countercurse that could undo the evil he himself had created? For every curse but one there is a countercurse, or so the dry and erudite volumes in the Hogwarts library had smugly informed him. And yet his own curse, Sectumsempra, seemed destined to join Avarda Kedavra as a second Killing Curse. He had never intended it to be that way. He had only wished for a spell that would cut like a sword, with none of the bulk of an actual weapon, something he could use for protection against his enemies like the knights and heroes of storybooks. He’d been such a fool, an ignorant child to think that a curse so powerful and destructive could remain his for very long. How quickly pride in his accomplishment had overrun his reason. Once Macnair and Avery knew, it was only a matter of time before the whole world could slash and wound their opponents with impunity. Yet, despite every obstacle, he had managed to construct a countercurse using a book on ancient Arab magic he’d lifted from the Restricted Section. It couldn’t reverse the spell, but it could stave off death and begin the long, painful process of healing. Damage, so easily done, was much harder to repair. Still, he reflected, gazing down at Narcissa’s prone and unconscious form as he began his third pass of the wand, his hours of research had not been wasted. The flesh of the woman’s back had begun to knit once more, the gaping wounds closing to form raised ridges. 

In a corner of his mind he could still feel the dominating presence of the Dark Lord nearby. He had no time, not if he wished to avoid the Dark Lord’s ire. But Narcissa had lost too much blood to survive for long without further treatment. Swearing silently, he halted the countercurse and lay the injured woman down on the bed so that she rested on her stomach, leaving the barely healed wounds exposed. A black silk dressing gown hung from a peg on the wall, and he summoned it with a flick of his wand, draping it over her body so that the gashes were hidden from view. With a wave of his wand, the bloodstains on his robes faded to nothing, leaving him as spotless as ever. A sudden idea made him pause. Striding to the vanity, he searched until he spied a small compact mirror. Reaching out with his wand, careful not to touch the object, he tapped it twice and muttered “Portus”. Then he walked back to the bed and pressed his wand against his own temple. When he drew it away a silver thread of memory clung to the tip. At his direction, the strand floated through the air toward Narcissa, glinting against her white-blonde hair, until quite suddenly it disappeared. Satisfied that he had done all he could, he marched to the door, shutting it firmly behind him, all the while ignoring the memories that threatened to engulf him. The memory of another woman, pale and still, her green eyes closed forever, her red hair soft as he held her in his arms.


	3. Lord Voldemort

He waited in the upstairs sitting room, leaning back in an old, carved armchair with his eyes closed, Nagini curled up at his feet like a faithful hound. He did not open his eyes when he heard the door open, nor did he have to. Through Nagini he could smell the newcomer, though the reek of blood mostly obscured the man’s unique scent. “My Lord,” the man said quietly. Lord Voldemort opened his eyes, revealing his unsettling, catlike pupils. “My Lord, you sent for me,” the man continued.

“Indeed, Severus,” Lord Voldemort replied coolly. “I have need of your talents. But I see you chose to utilize those talents elsewhere, tending to an unworthy wretch of a woman before answering my call.”

“Forgive me, my Lord,” Severus murmured. “Had I thought it against your wishes, I never would have intervened.”

He searched, but could find no hint of compassion in the mind of the man standing before him. The knowledge set his mind at ease: the last thing he wanted was for passions to erupt within his stronghold, not now with so many of his followers imprisoned once more. “I was undecided, as to Narcissa’s fate,” he explained. “I left it up to you to choose. You chose mercy.”

“On the contrary,” Severus replied smoothly. “I simply considered her to be of more use alive than dead. And of course…”

“Go on,” Lord Voldemort urged, his interest piqued. He reached down and began to stroke the head of the enormous snake.

“Well, if her death was truly your intent, I would have thought you’d want to kill her yourself, rather than assign the deed to an underling. For someone like Narcissa Black Malfoy, that is.”

The corners of his mouth turned up the tiniest bit. “Well spotted. The Carrows needed exercise, so I let them have her. How could you tell?”

“My Lord, had a wizard of your power and skill used that curse upon her, she would have been cut in two on the first stroke.”

Lord Voldemort smiled in satisfaction. He had always liked Severus. So shrewd, so cunning, yet always loyal. “Your powers of observation are as sharp as ever. Come,” he gestured to the chair beside him. “Sit with me.” Severus obeyed, long black robes swirling behind him. “Lucius will know, by now, of his wife’s fate. One can only imagine his reaction. However, I am not yet through with the Malfoy family. Not entirely, that is. The son, Draco, will be returning to Hogwarts in a few weeks’ time.”

“My Lord, I regret to say that the Malfoy boy will stand little chance of reaching Harry Potter. Dumbledore’s protection is too strong.”

Lord Voldemort’s expression was almost smug. At his feet, Nagini stirred. “Potter is not my primary concern, at the moment. No, I have a different mission in mind for the Malfoy boy…”


	4. Narcissa

The dismal little town could barely be seen through the clinging mist. The solitary stone chimney towered above like a specter, immovable. The town seemed deserted. Even the moon was hidden, a sliver of light dimmed by the fog. Without warning, a cloaked figure appeared on the banks of the dirty river. In her hand she held a small compact mirror, which she quickly stowed beneath the folds of her cloak. Cautiously, the woman made her way up the riverbank to a narrow, cobbled street. A maze of lanes and alleyways stretched out before her. Without hesitating, the figure wove through the streets until at last she came to one called “Spinner’s End”. The homes around her were dark, boarded up and deserted, but at the far end of the street a single light shone through the curtained window of a downstairs room. As though in a trance, the figure walked toward the light, stopping on the doorstep of a small and shabby house. From beneath the cloak, a pale arm appeared, knocking on the flimsy wooden door. The figure leaned against the doorframe, shoulders hunched with exhaustion. There was a moment of silence, then the door swung open, revealing a sallow man with black, greasy hair parted in the center. He did not look surprised in the slightest to see the cloaked figure. On the contrary, his expression was one of satisfaction, and perhaps the smallest bit of relief. Stepping aside, he motioned wordlessly for the figure to enter. Once they were both inside, he shut the door, locking it with a trio of strong bolts. He turned to the figure, who had already thrown back the cloak’s hood, revealing long blonde hair and a pale face. “Narcissa,” the man said. “I see you found your way without trouble.”

The woman nodded. Her eyes were bloodshot, the muscles in her neck taut as though keeping her head aloft took a great deal of effort. “I did,” she confirmed, her voice low.

“Take off your cloak, then,” the man said. Though his words were a command, he spoke quietly and without force

The woman grimaced, but undid the silver fastenings around her neck and allowed the cloak to fall from her shoulders, casting it aside. She wore black, an old-fashioned gown with a high neck and tiny silk buttons running from her hairline down her back to the base of her spine. The man approached, taking in every angle of her body. She stood as still as a marble statue, her eyes cast downwards. Her only movement came when the man reached out as though to stroke her hair. She flinched away and his hand returned to his side at once. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I will need to remove your clothes in order to work.”

She swallowed, then nodded stiffly again. The man stepped closer until he stood directly behind her. One by one, he undid the silk buttons, revealing more and more of her pale body until her back was fully exposed. She did not flinch once, her fists clenched at her sides, her eyes closed tight. She could feel the man’s eyes upon her, and the barely healed scars that patterned her skin tingled faintly beneath his gaze. The man felt for something in the pocket of his robes and drew out a thin box of polished, inlaid wood, and a white cloth. Setting the box down on a nearby end table, he opened the lid to reveal a row of vials full of different colored liquids. He chose the smallest, which contained an opaque deep purple potion, and uncorked it, carefully folding the cloth into a square the size of his palm before letting three drops of the liquid fall onto the fabric. “This may sting,” he told her.

It did. Each motion of the cloth over the cursed wounds burned like fire, as painful as the original curse. The difference lay in the nature of the pain. She knew Severus Snape, knew his skill, knew it was he who had ensured her survival once the Carrows had finished with her. This pain would fade. 

Nonetheless, she was shaking by the time he reached her lower back. “Would you like to rest?” he asked softly. “Sit down for a moment?”

She shook her head firmly. “I’m alright,” she insisted, voice hoarse. She coughed once, then reset her shoulders, bracing herself once more. “All at once is better than drawing it out.” She could feel him nod behind her without looking at him. Closing her eyes, she prepared for the onslaught of pain. 

The moment the cloth touched her skin she knew something was different. He had reached the very bottom of her back, where her hips began to widen, and found the deepest of her many scars. It was Alecto who had given her that one, laughing all the while and joking with her brother over who could get their captive to scream the louder. As Severus brushed against the sensitive scar tissue she felt darkness closing in all around her. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she knew no more.

When she awoke, she found herself stretched out on a moth-eaten couch, her body covered by a brown and yellow afghan. Severus sat calmly in an armchair across from her, reading from a leather-bound book. Between them, a plain pewter goblet balanced upon a low, rickety coffee table. He looked up as she stirred, brows coming together in a frown. “Don’t move. Not yet. And drink that,” he said, gesturing to the goblet.

She ignored him, pushing herself up into a seated position. Her whole body ached as though she’d thrown herself beneath a train and somehow lived to tell the tale. She noticed her gown was still half off, and pulled the afghan around so that it covered her shoulders and chest. “I’m alright,” she said. “Really,” she added, when he looked skeptical. “I feel much better.”

“Be that as it may,” Severus said, “The amount of blood loss you’ve sustained in the past twenty-four hours could damage your body irreparably unless you consume a strong replenishment potion. Drink.”

She obeyed, reaching out and grasping the goblet by the stem. The liquid inside was the color of pumpkin juice, but the surface shimmered with red sparks. She swallowed the potion as quickly as possible, grimacing as it burned its way down her throat and into her stomach. 

“Good,” Severus said. He waved his wand and a stool appeared, rotating once in the air before dropping to the carpet with a dull thud. “I think we should continue with you seated. I would hate you to injure yourself further.”

Narcissa struggled to her feet, trying to conceal how much her body hurt, and moved until she could perch on the stool. She didn’t know exactly why she wanted to hide her pain from Severus. Perhaps it was his calm, emotionless demeanor. He was impossible to read, and she had no way of knowing what he thought of her as she sat hunched before him, her body exposed and vulnerable. He had switched vials now and produced a clean cloth. This vial held a viscous green liquid that itched where it touched her, and she had to lock her hands together in front of her to keep from tearing at her own skin with her long nails. Severus was chanting in a language she didn’t recognize, and she suddenly felt very alone. Was this what she had come to? Her husband imprisoned, the Dark Lord despising her very existence, her son in danger the moment he set foot in their home once more? Sneaking out of her own house to some dingy back alley in the desperate hope that she would not have to live her life mangled and maimed by her husband’s cronies? She felt tears fill her eyes and willed them away, but they would not listen. A single tear fell onto her clasped hands, and then another. Behind her, Severus halted his song-like chant and rested one hand on her shoulder. “We’re almost finished,” he told her, his voice gentle, as though speaking to a frightened animal. “Nearly there, and then you can return home.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Severus went back to his chanting, his wand tracing over the wounds for what felt like the thousandth time, his other hand still resting on her shoulder. Then, just like that, it was done. She stood carefully, reaching behind her to feel where the slashes had been. Only the smallest raised lines remained. “Those will fade with time,” Severus assured her. “Use dittany twice a day for the next two weeks.”

She nodded. “Thank you. You did not have to do this.”

“I know,” he replied simply. Without her asking, he stepped forward and began to do up the buttons on the back of her gown, hiding her body from view behind the elegant silk and velvet. He paused as he finished the top two buttons, fingers lingering on her neck. Then, seeming to decide something, he moved until he was directly behind her, his body touching hers. One hand snaked beneath her arm to lie on her breast, directly above her heart, while the other came to rest in the hollow of her hipbone. She tensed, panic rising within her as she prepared to fight him off, but a strange feeling had come over her limbs. It seemed as though she were moving through water, unable to struggle. He pulled her closer and she felt the heat of his body against her back. At the same time, warmth began to spread from his hands, flowing outward and inward until her entire body glowed with unseen heat. Her muscles relaxed, their knots releasing. Bruises faded, and the deep ache that had sat within her chest since the Carrows’ attack lessened. She exhaled a long breath that seemed to go on forever. When she inhaled again, her limbs were back to normal. She turned to look at Severus, whose face had resumed its usual closed expression. “I’ve never met anyone who could do that. You should have been a healer.”

He smiled, a hint of bitterness in his eyes. “A healer Death Eater? That would be quite something.”

She gathered her cloak, fastening it once more around her neck, and together they walked to the door. As Severus unlocked it he glanced at her appraisingly. “You’ll be able to apparate?” he asked.

She nodded. “Perfectly,” she replied, without hesitation. Despite the lateness of the hour, she felt better than she had in weeks. The bone-weariness that had consumed her was gone, replaced by a much gentler exhaustion.

“Sleep,” Severus advised. “As much as you can, while you’re healing.”

“I will.” Stepping out into the dark misty night, she turned to look back at the man in the doorway. “Thank you, Severus. I won’t forget this.”

With a quick turn and a soft popping sound, she vanished, leaving the man alone at the end of the deserted street.


	5. Dumbledore

“—expects results from the boy, or his entire family will suffer the consequences.”

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, elbows propped on the arms of his chair, his fingertips tapping together as he examined the man before him. Severus Snape stood, as was his custom, rather than sat in the chair nearby, the harsh lines of his sallow face more pronounced than ever since the Ministry break-in. “And so Draco takes his father’s place in the ranks. Poor Narcissa.” Snape made a quick, jerking movement with his head, and Dumbledore looked at him sharply. “How is she, by the way?” he asked casually.

Snape’s mouth went tight. “As well as can be expected, I imagine. I have not seen her since that night.”

“Mm,” hummed Dumbledore, not taking his eyes off the pale man. “If I am correct, and I usually am about such things, that will not be the last time she seeks you out. She trusts you now.”

“More fool her,” Snape murmured darkly. “If she has put her faith in me to save her from the Dark Lord’s wrath, she must truly be desperate.”

Dumbledore frowned, but when he spoke his voice was kind. “I see nothing wrong with her choice. In fact, I believe making you her champion is one of the wisest things a woman in her position could do. You care about her, do you not?” Seeing Snape’s look and sensing the emotion behind it, he shook his head. “Not in that way. But love is not necessary in order to care for someone’s wellbeing. If she came to you again, you would help her?”

Snape nodded stiffly. “To the best of my ability, yes.”

“Excellent.” Dumbledore sat back in his chair. “Once she finds out Voldemort’s plans for her only son, I have no doubt she will seek you out. Until then, we must focus on more pressing matters…”


	6. Lucius

He paused on the threshold of the Manor, knees trembling. Before him the entrance hall looked unfamiliar, foreboding, despite the familiar trappings. A year in Azkaban had left his body a wreck and his mind unbalanced. Even his ancestral home seemed strange. He made his way cautiously inside, letting the other newly-freed prisoners go first. It took him so much longer, now, to pull his thoughts together, and he did not wish to appear foolish in front of his Master. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath to calm himself.

A noise on the stair made his eyes snap open, and he felt his heart stop dead in his chest.

She stood on the first landing, her long blonde hair braided up into a crown that encircled her head. A gown of dark burgundy velvet clung to her slender body, the wide neckline revealing her graceful, sloping shoulders and her delicate neck. A jeweled silver choker sparkled red against her fair skin. Her pale eyes were wide as she took in his appearance. With one tentative hand she reached toward him. It was all the invitation he needed. As though in a trance, he crossed the room and mounted the staircase until he stood before her. With trembling fingers, he traced the line of her jaw, his eyes never leaving hers. “I thought you were dead,” he croaked.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and pulled him closer, her lips meeting his in a soft, tender kiss. “I nearly was,” she said when they broke apart. “The Dark Lord was very angry. Still, he spared me. And with you home, I have nothing left to fear.”

He chose not to contradict her. She would learn soon enough of his fall from grace, of his greatly diminished status among the Death Eaters who once had followed his every command. He found that he didn't care as much as he had moments before. For now what mattered most was her, alive and whole, and the feel of her mouth on his.


End file.
